


No

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Consent Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:05:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words are quiet, soft and stained with a darkness John never expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tag/warning. This deals heavily with consent issues but is not, in any way, a non-con story.

John is trying very, very hard not to limp. Atlantis opens the door before he palms the sensor, a gentle swish of air that feels cool and familiar, letting him fall into the darkness of his room.

There are advantages of military training, he thinks. His floor is painfully clear, free of hazards he might inadvertently bump into or fall on as he focuses on reaching the bed. Nothing—not vision, not awareness, not anything—is really functioning.

It's also a disadvantage.

"Rodney." Trying not to bury his face into his elbows, John thinks about sitting up. Fails. "Why are you here?"

"Mm, I should be somewhere else?"

"Your _quarters_ , maybe?" This is week-long Wraith siege levels of exhaustion and his foot _hurts_. A lot. He's frighteningly near a breakdown and doesn't know how he got here. "Not on my _bed?"_

"Mm," Rodney says, dismissively. Curiously, too, with that note of _I've got a theory_ that John's learned to love and loathe. "Just a second."

His pants are being unbuttoned, shoved down with hands that are too sure for the haste they use, pushing and tugging until John's exposed to the blank walls that unceasingly look back. He doesn't decorate, much. "No, Rodney, I—"

"Sh. Don't talk."

But he doesn't stop talking. Mumbling, really, a "hey," mixed in with a, "No, c'mon, I'm tired," and even, later, a _"please"_. Because Rodney is silent, so frighteningly silent as he pushes and arranges John to his satisfaction, his hands leaving warm trails as they move all over John's body, before finally withdrawing.

Even their breathing is hushed.

"Rodney," John cracks, "don't. Please. Don't."

A hint of pressure, slick and cold makes him jump. He says, "stop," again, like it means anything, helpless as Rodney slides a thick finger inside him, pushing and pressing. It burns, always burns at first, an intoxicating, addictive heat that runs along his bones, filling up the coldness he never notices otherwise. He moans, "No, Rodney," pressing his face into his pillow until he can feel the zippered edge as one becomes two and Rodney sets up a languorous rhythm, lazy without ever once being relaxed.

He breathes in ice, exhales heat so intense it's colorless fire, because that's how he feels. Rodney is overwhelming, body solid— _stolid_ , strong and steady—behind his, close enough but never quite touching. Even his breath, level despite the hitch in John's, never brushes the sensitized skin at the back of John's neck, just a promise of wetness that's a tease as slick fingers work in and out. It undoes him, disconnects bone from tendon, tendon from skin. Blood flows freely through him and he can't stop moaning, low, gravelly groans that he can feel in his dick, the tightness of his ass as Rodney turns two into three.

They're unerring, those fingers, sliding past where John wants them most until all he can say is, "No, please, no, no, no," and it isn't what he means, at all. That's combinations of _please_ and _touch me_ , words that long ago etched themselves on his lungs, there but never spoken, just whispered with each passing moment. His mouth shapes the words "no," again, and John's aware of his lips, how full and soft, scraped from his teeth dragged over them, wet from his tongue as he licks, shoulders straining as three becomes four and almost, almost that's too much. It hurts now, an undercurrent of pain that shivers from his head to his toes, hips jerking backwards, uncoordinated and awkward, straining against what he can't—doesn't want to—stop.

"Tell me no again," Rodney says. The words are quiet, soft and stained with a darkness John never expects.

They feel like a lash.

"No."

"Tell me to stop." His thumb is pressed hard against the fullness of John's ass, digging in until there will be bruises.

John whines, deep in his throat and feels precome slide down his aching cock. "S-stop, oh—oh, god. Stop."

"Tell me you don't want this."

John can't, he can't, because he's coming hard enough that there's only red in front of his eyes, body jerking uncontrollably as he wets himself, helpless as a child, sticky and abruptly so relaxed that he flattens heavily onto his stomach, no memory of wanting to do so.

Behind him, Rodney makes considering noises as he rolls onto his feet—the bed echoes after he’s gone—muttering as he cleans off his fingers and rustles his clothes. He’s completely and utterly ignoring John and that alone keeps him awake.

John’s struggling to find words, again, to make lips and tongue to feel like his again, instead of too big and unwieldy, when Rodney suddenly hovers in front of him. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he says again.

He’s smiling, teeth just barely visible.

“Don’t,” John answers, rote. He tries to reach out, to touch Rodney—skin and warm and _Rodney_ there, so good—but his hand is pushed back, tucked under blankets that are smoothed over his shoulders.

“Sleep, John.” When Rodney says it like that, John hears other words, and drops off into sleep without protest.

* * * 

When Rodney starts spluttering and falling over his words, unable to make even one coherent, John knows it’s time. He waits for the lull: Rodney, turning away to exhibit a face that’s gone past red into something that’s painful to watch, like imminent explosions wobbling into being, his shoulders heaving and shaking, skin too fragile to contain everything inside.

John jerks his head at the victims: leave. Now. They aren't foolish, despite their past behavior, and without even a grateful look they flee. They're silent as they go, cowed Colonel Sheppard’s unwavering, foreboding support.

“How could they—!” The words break off, scattered like sand heating to sharpened edges. “They—”

“I know, Rodney.” He does, too. Finding good help is a continuous problem; for both of them.

“They could have—” Still no coherence and this is getting dangerously close to the worst John’s ever witnessed. Rodney without words is a Rodney without purpose, rudderless flailing that accomplishes nothing but potential cardiac-arrest, something none of them can afford. He has to be able to think, to undo each Chinese puzzle-box as it appears, because there’s no one else. No one else.

His hands are shaking.

John takes them. The pulse is erratic, so strong that he doesn't need to 'find' it, his own heart ratcheting up in sheer defense. Right. _Really_ bad. Leading Rodney to the first chair he spots, John pushes him down. He’s not sure what his intent is beyond nebulous comfort, calming the volcano before it burns everything around it to cinders. He’s not expecting a knee cut sharply behind his own, dropping him painfully to the floor.

“Jesus, McKay, are you actually—”

“Shut up,” Rodney says. He's scrabbling, intent beyond the frantic way he's trying to pant, and groans when he finally gets his fingers around his fly, yanking it down. “Shut up, shut up, and just.”

Just what, John can understand as an angry red cock, matched set with the countenance above it, appears inches before him. It's a demand, no, not even that because there's no question, not at all. Just pure expectation.

He flushes, masking it with a glare as white as Antarctica's frozen wasteland. “Fuck you,” he spits.

“Oh, god, would you just get your mouth around my cock and _shut up?_ I have had the kind of day that make lesser men kill themselves, a sin I have no intention of committing, but you sat there and _watched_ , the whole time. It doesn’t matter that you agreed, do you understand that, _John?_ You watched, and said nothing,” the word spits out, accusing, even as hands grip the back of John’s head and _shove_ , “with your pretty, pouting mouth glaring at them like you don’t need the words I’m giving you and—oh, yes, god." Wet, tight heat momentarily derails each precision recrimination. It always does. "Relax your throat," Rodney moans. "I want to fuck your face.”

John should say no. He _wants_ to say no, to bite the thick, heavy cock that scrapes along his tongue, glans already tight against the back of his throat, demanding entrance. He wants to shove, the way Rodney’s been shoving him, forcing them to separate, allowing John to punch him the way Rodney deserves.

Except.

Except his mouth is already watering, knees shifting to a better position as he begins to lightly suck. It’s automatic, habitual and consistent, conditioned to respond to the familiar taste that melts down his spine, erasing the fight with a teacher's firm strokes. Like this, he is nothing but willing. _Eager_. The shame of it tightens John’s stomach—always, always, how many years? How long?—the pleasure of it working lower, pants suddenly tight as his hips cannot help but roll, and oh, he can't _stop_. Rodney's cock is gorgeous, thick enough to make his jaw strain, lips stretched tight. He purses them, allowing the softer edge to drag as he slides up and down—won't fight, not with this pinning him where he wants to be—making sure everything's slick before trying anything fancier. He knows all the right places, flicking his tongue below the head, flattening it over the glans, just to make Rodney breathe like a smoker, harsh and awkward.

“Oh, yes,” Rodney pants. His fingers scrabble against John’s hair and neck, trailing red marks that neither of them will care about. “That’s right, relax—oh, thank god.”

John’s not good at deep-throating. Rodney doesn't care. The moment he feels John amateurishly relaxing his hips surge forward. He fucks with short, hard thrusts, entirely focused on his own relief, uncaring that his actions leave John choking, gasping for breath while his face turns wet. It's rough, brutally so, and John ignores the blooming ache in his sinuses and instead concentrates on staying where he is, kneeling and still. His hands are on Rodney's thighs, wormed under his half-open pants: the punishing grip is intended to be a rebuttal, retribution for this ignominious use. Instead, Rodney’s fingers thread through his own, a hint of sweetness that beats at the walls of John’s sanity. It’s intimate, the curve of Rodney’s fingers against his own, sliding over nail beds even as their edges bite deep. It’s _kind_ , a terrifying contradiction to the cock that slams into his throat again and again, cutting off air and thought both, leaving him nothing but a mouth, a body for Rodney to take and take and oh, finally, _fill_ —

“Mm,” Rodney purrs. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

From between his legs, John glares up at him and tries not to be obvious as he licks his lips for any lingering taste.

* * *

“Look,” Rodney says one night. It’s late, quiet in the best of ways, when there's no crisis running them ragged during the day and none expected for the morrow. Empty beer bottles roll playfully against each other on the floor. “I can certainly see the appeal of—of this. This thing. It's undeniable, not that I've tried, because I really haven't.”

Rodney doesn't like quiet. John—Atlantis—has taught him to appreciate it, but the weight of it fits him badly. He looks haggard, slumped on John's unmade bed, as rumbled as the sheets bunched around him. A quick yank would probably have him unraveling, and John tries hard not to look for the tell-tale thread that will pull everything down. If he finds it, he'll learn to sew it safe. 

"Right."

Rodney's eyes are always bluest at his worst, unwavering as they stare. “Can I just _ask_ when I want something? Sometimes?”

There's no boom of thunder, no sickening drop of his stomach, leaving him hollow and stripped bare under those words. John's always thought there would be, had twisted himself with imagining when he would finally be found out. Accused.

Only there's no accusation to Rodney's question. It's just a question. At worst a little plaintive. “Ask me what?” he rasps.

“Can I fuck you?”

Steady now, John ignores the darkened corners of his own mind, baggage so thick he has no place left to put it. He looks back at Rodney, the shadows that chase themselves across his face: recrimination, John reads; regret; naked want so fierce it chills. “As opposed to?”

Rodney's grin is mirthless. “Just grabbing you and making you take it.”

It should've been the final shot, the twisted wreckage slamming into earth's unwelcome embrace. It isn't. If anything, John feels freer for finally hearing it, for naming the nebulous _want_ that crowds behind his eyes. And with this knowledge, comes its own kind of rewards. Leaning forward, John brushes a smile into Rodney’s lips, kissing after it to seal it there, lingering and as sweet as fingers that curl between his whenever they can. “You like making me take it.”

“What? Yes, yes, of course I do. You like that I make you take it, too.”

“Clever use of not saying ‘like’ twice.”

But Rodney’s shaking his head, distancing himself without an iota more space between them, and suddenly John can _see_. John's dressed Rodney up in blue and red, an S to mark the spot, aggression and confidence, but he's never stopped to guess what Rodney thinks of his new garments. John _sees_ it now, sees Rodney shrouded in bruises and blood, just another false costume, more tattered than most.

Two nights ago: Rodney, facing away as he picks at his bootlaces, _"Should I just buy you a vibrator?"_

A different meaning, now.

“Hey," he says, desperate to say what he's never once been able. That's the strength of the role, the script he's built up over the years. He doesn't _have_ to—but he wants to, wants to erase the weary acceptance that hides what John thought he'd had. Wants. "Hey, _Rodney_ " _Still_ wants, and there, in the role, he realizes how to get it. He cups bristly cheeks, tugging until there's not escaping. No leaving. "Ask me.”

“What?”

“Ask me, Rodney.”

There's no penny drop. Dutifully—dully—Rodney asks, “Can I fuck you?”

“No.” There’s nothing definable in the word, no differing inflection or emphasis. It’s the same as it always is, an echo of too many encounters.

Utterly different.

Rodney hesitates. "Okay?"

"No, Rodney." He beats back the urge to grin, leaning forward until they're both prone across the bed, chests together in a brush of heat and steady life that fills the emptiness: with plans; plots. “No. You can’t." His kiss is full of teeth. "But you can’t leave, either.”

He knows the smile is wicked. It's reflected in wide blue eyes that crinkle along the edges, grinning with a power nothing can ever compare. John slides off, basking in Rodney's gaze while the clothes come off, revealing skin and age and _John_ , as naked and as vulnerable as the man on the bed.

Thrumming with heat, John says, “Tell me you don’t want this."


End file.
